Chapter 27
Twenty-Seven
Thorn
Pascal is enjoying this.
I can see it in the subtle lift of his brow, the slight smirk that clings to his mouth.
I scowl at him as we sit in my office.
“What?” he asks as he reads through the packet of papers.
“Nothing,” I mutter, wondering if we’ll ever finish wading through the trail of shell companies.
“Sergio still texting?”
“No,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “He seems to have given up on the blackmail attempts.”
“Hmm.”
“What?”
A shake of his head.
“What?”
“You look like shit.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“You’re tired.”
I blink at him. “Yeah, we all are.” We’ve been working our asses off on this shit while also trying to keep our normal businesses afloat. It’s not like I’ve been lounging in bed all day, catching up on my Zs.
Of course, when I am in bed, I’m not exactly sleeping.
I’m thinking about silky red hair and gentle blue eyes and sugar cookies and paperbacks and movies that make a good woman cry.
What about me?
Did I make her cry too?
Fuck.
I scrub my palms over my face.
“You need to sleep. Or all this”—he sweeps out a hand, indicating the disaster that’s my office—“isn’t going to mean shit.”
It has to mean something.
Because if it’s the same fucked-up shit at the end of all this…
“Fuck off,” I mutter.
“Ah, the traditional reply of men being idiots.”
I close the laptop, shove to my feet.
His mouth twitches, the bastard.
I want to punch the smirk off his face, but even older than me, I know the asshole can still kick my ass. Multiple decades of military experience and security protection details (not to mention years spent working toward taking down an international crime ring) have honed his skills.
Which is why he just calmly sits there as I sidestep his chair and do what I’ve spent most of my time doing of late (at least when I’m not sleeping)—
Pacing.
“So,” he says casually, “have you called her?”
I freeze. Open my mouth. Close it again. Then blow out a breath. “You’re not going to leave it alone, are you?”
“Nope.”
I stare up at the ceiling. “Do you know what your problem is?”
“Can’t what for you to tell me for a change.”
“You’re an asshole.”
He just shakes his head. “And you’re a stubborn fuck.” Then before I can argue (or glare at him some more) he shoves some papers at me. “Tell me your thoughts about this.”
My jaw tightens.
This is exactly what I wanted.
To focus on work. To find a way to make sure River is safe.
Forever.
But, fuck, if it doesn’t feel empty.
Pascal sighs. “Christ, man. Just call her.”
I shake my head, grab the file, and read it through. Then I tell him my thoughts on the trail—still the same shit, still getting closer, still a fucked-up, tangled mess.
He listens. Nods. Says, “I agree. Attie thinks she’s close to something, but I’m thinking if that leads to yet another fucking shell game, we should go on the offensive.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“We’ve been chasing our tails trying to go after them, reacting to their volleys.” His mouth hitches up. “I think it’s beyond time that we lob a bomb of our own.”
“How would we possibly do that?”
“You still have Sergio’s number.”
My brows drag together.
Then the pieces start sliding into place.
“What does Attie think about using it?”
“That we’d better not fuck up her investigation.”
I sigh. There is that.
Then again, the wheels of justice are notoriously slowly…and most of the time, fucking broken.
“Still,” I say, “it’s the best leverage we have, especially if we play it right.”
We talk for a few more minutes before he pushes to his feet. “We’re taking Brooks out for a couple beers while the women do their bachelorette thing. You going to join us?”
“No,” I tell him immediately.
He shakes his head. “Christ, man.”
“I’m busy.”
“Now, you’re running scared.” A beat. “The only question is whether or not you man up in time.”
With that, Pascal leaves.
And unfortunately, he takes all of my excuses with him.
Three hours later, I’ve run out of work and I’m standing in the middle of my office staring at my phone.
At River’s contact on my phone.
Pathetic.
Absolutely pathetic.
I’ve negotiated multimillion-dollar acquisitions. Yet, I’m worried about making a phone call.
I swipe her number away, turn for the door.
Then stop.
Open her contact again.
Close it again.
“Fuck,” I whisper…and tap the screen.
The call begins to ring through.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Voicemail.
“Fuck,” I whisper again, my fingers clenching on the phone so hard it creaks in protest. Then I jab at the screen, ending the call before I can do something as pathetic as leave a sad message begging her to forgive me and call me back.
Dumb.
So fucking dumb.
My phone buzzes with a call and I nearly drop it. “H-hello?”
“Thorn?” River says. “Is everything okay?”
God.
I close my eyes.
Because I forgot.
Not what her voice sounds like.
Just…how much I missed hearing it.
“Are you there?”
I open my mouth, can’t get my tongue to form words.
River sighs quietly. “What do you need, Thorn?”
I wince.
Not because she sounds angry.
But because she’s polite. Steady. Distant.
And that’s a hundred fucking times worse.
I grip the phone tighter. “I, uh, wanted to see how you’re doing.”
The moment the words leave my mouth I know they’re wrong.
Not a lie. Just wrong.
Because of course she’s not okay.
She laughs humorously. “Seriously?”
“I, fuck, I’m sorry. I just…”
A sigh. “You mean it.”
“Yeah,” I mutter.
Her voice softens slightly. “Yeah, I know.” A sigh. “But that’s not why you’re calling.”
She’s right.
Of course she’s right.
The problem is I don’t know how to answer, how to tell her all that I have to tell her, how to keep her safe without her hating me. How to tell her—
I miss you.
I can’t sleep.
The apartment feels wrong without you.
And most fucking important of all…
I love you.
Instead, I blurt, “Violet misses you.”
She’s quiet for a long, painful moment. “Right.”
My insides twist. “River—”
“Please just tell me the truth, Thorn.”
I close my eyes, tilt my head up at the ceiling, but I can’t make myself form the words.
She sighs, her tone resigned. “Let me guess, you can’t?”
More silence, long and heavy and painful.
“No,” I rasp, “I can’t.”
River exhales softly. “I know.” Noise echoes in the background of her call and I remember that she’s at the bachelorette party. “Look, I should go.”
“River.”
“Yeah?” Her voice is gentle. Dangerously gentle. Like she’s trying not to hurt me.
And that has the truth sliding out.
“I don’t know how to do this.”
Silence.
Then she murmurs, “I know.”
No anger.
No judgment.
Just…understanding.
God.
That might be the worst part of this whole fucking thing.
Because she understands what it’s like to be broken. It’s just that she’s strong enough to have pieced herself together.
“But until you do,” she tells me. “I can’t do this, Thorn.”
The words are soft but they pierce through me.
“Then why are you still talking to me?” I rasp.
She’s quiet for long enough that I think she won’t answer. Then she does and it nearly breaks me. “Because I still love you.”
For one impossible second, I can’t move.
Can’t breathe.
Can barely keep my feet.
River loves me?
Fuck. That’s…wonderful, terrible…
And then she keeps talking.
And the hope growing inside me dies in an instant.
“But I can’t do this with you until you trust me enough to tell me the truth.” A breath. “About everything.”
My throat tightens. “I miss you.”
More silence.
Then she whispers, “I miss you too.”
“Little hen—”
“Goodbye, Thorn.”
The line disconnects. I stare at the phone…then hurl it across the room.
I stand perfectly still in my office for a long time after that.
Then I move to my desk and drop my head into my hands, thinking about the past, about the few good parts, about the many, many terrible parts.
I think about the secrets.
The shame.
The truths I’ve spent years burying deep.
And I know if I want River back…
The next time I stand in front of her, I’ll have to give her every ugly piece of me.